by K. E. Mills
Nothing. And it’s not like he’s an idiot, or completely inexperienced. There have been other young ladies. Not many and not for long, but still.
Which perhaps meant that this was the first time Monk had been genuinely… smitten. And perhaps that was the explanation for his reticence in a nutshell.
Sleepy Chatterly Crescent came to an end, which meant they had the choice of turning left or right onto The Old Parade. Hitting the right indicator button, which produced an orange hand on a long lever, its fingers making a singularly impolite gesture—bloody hell, Monk!—he eased the jalopy into the sporadic westwards traffic flow. And that gave him an excuse to glance at Melissande. No two ways about it, she was definitely fed up—and quite possibly on the brink of tears. Which was so unlike her that he felt his stomach sink.
I’m no good at this. I think it’s time to change the subject.
“So, Melissande, I was wondering,” he said after a few moments of frantic brain-racking, as the jalopy chugged along with its narrow tires hissing on the wet road. He had to be a bit careful along here, they needed to turn off The Old Parade any tick of the clock. Easing back on the accelerator, he leaned over the steering wheel and peered through the windshield. Drat it, where was the turn-off? The night’s mizzling rain was making the world all smeary…
Melissande shifted in the passenger seat to stare at him. “Yes? Wondering what, Gerald?”
Hitting the indicator button again then changing down gears, he eased the jalopy to a grumbling idle and waited for an oncoming horse-and-carriage to pass. The horse was soaked, its ears pinned back to show its lack of enthusiasm.
Poor thing, and on a horrible night like this, too.
“Gerald!” Melissande said sharply. “Wondering what?”
He blinked at her. “What? Oh—yes—sorry—about this problematical Frobisher person.” The hard done-by horse trotted sullenly by, carriage in tow, and he made the turn across The Old Parade. “Will you be all right dealing with him or would you like me to—”
“Thank you, Gerald,” said Melissande icily, “but I’m perfectly capable of handling one dyspeptic senior citizen without a man’s assistance. Or a wizard’s, for that matter. In case you hadn’t noticed we are living in the modern era. It’s amazing what women can do these days without the help of men. Or wizards.”
“Although the same can’t be said for vice versa,” added Reg. “You do know you’ve just gone the wrong way down a one-way street, Gerald?”
Bugger. He’d turned too soon. It was all Monk’s fault.
There was nobody coming towards them and nowhere to turn around anyway so he took a deep breath, put his foot down on the soggy accelerator and nudged the jalopy along a bit faster with the merest hint of a speed-em-up hex. Nipping out of the entrance to the one-way street, barely avoiding an unfortunate encounter with a cab that was traveling far too fast for the prevailing conditions, he eased back on the jalopy’s accelerator and the thaumaturgic rev-up and settled into the fitful traffic bowling along Central Ott Way, which would take them in more or less the direction of Witches Incorporated’s modest office.
Melissande was so quiet. He glanced at her sidelong. Lord, she really was upset—and some instinct told him it was about more than just Monk and their unromantic romantic entanglement. So what else could it be?
“How’s Rupert?” he asked casually. “Have you heard from him lately? Everything going all right back home?”
“Rupert’s fine,” she said, distant, staring through the rain-speckled passenger window. “He’s very busy, working on his modernization program. Not everyone’s as enthusiastic about it as he is.”
“Tradition with a capital T digging its heels in?”
She shrugged. “Something like that.”
“You’re not wishing you were back there, giving him a hand?”
“Lord, no,” she said. “And anyway, Rupert doesn’t want me involved. He says the idea of me in trousers and business is one thing but the fact of it just now would make his job harder, not easier.”
Right. So probably she wasn’t homesick. What did that leave? He could feel Reg settled on the back seat, loudly not saying any number of things.
Thanks, ducky. You’re a bloody big help, you are. The one time I could use some unsolicited advice…
Really, though, there was only one other explanation for Melissande’s glum mood. He glanced at her sidelong again. From the look on her face there was a very good chance she’d bite his head off for asking…
But she’s my friend and she’s miserable. And if I’m right it’s partly my fault.
In which case he owed her the chance to do some biting.
“So, Melissande, I suppose it’s time we talked about the agency. You know, how this new arrangement of ours is working out.”
Behind them Reg snorted, softly. Melissande stiffened as though he’d stuck her with a pin. Ah-hah. In his new line of work that was called a clue.
They hadn’t talked about it since he’d joined the girls at Witches Inc., but he strongly suspected that she still hadn’t come to terms with the agency’s new and unusual circumstances. Even though Sir Alec had kept his word—at least so far—which meant there’d been no government interference with how the agency was run—well, unless you counted clients like Arnold Frobisher—still… he thought she was unhappy. He thought she was resenting the loss of her autonomy.
And that is my fault. I got her and Bibbie and Reg caught up in the Wycliffe qffair. Exposed them to secrets they weren’t meant to know. And that gave Sir Alec no choice. Gave Melissande no choice. It was surrender independence to the Department or be closed down altogether. Damn. Why is it that every time I try to do the right thing it seems I help things go more wrong instead?
Melissande continued to gaze at the passing street. “You don’t need to worry about Witches Inc., Gerald. That’s my job. It’s my agency.”
“Oy! And mine,” said Reg, annoyed. “And Madam Scatterbrain’s, though probably it’s better if we don’t say that aloud too often. We don’t want to give the little horror ideas.”
“Hey,” he said, casting her a look over his shoulder. “Scatterbrained I’ll grant you. Plus she’s impetuous and careless and far too brave for her own good, but Bibs is no horror. So you can take that back, thank you.”
Reg sniffed. “Make me.”
Bloody hell. Ignoring Reg, he focused on Melissande. “Look, I know it’s your agency and I’m just the ring-in,” he said, slowing the jalopy for the left-hand turn that would take them off Central Ott Way and into the outskirts of the shabby genteel business district where the agency lived. “But, Mel, that doesn’t mean I don’t have a stake in Witches Inc. For all our sakes I want it to succeed.”
“I know you do,” said Melissande as they swung neatly around the corner, splashing through puddles and startling some scavenging rats.
“Well then, in that spirit,” he continued, “I’d like to suggest that in the future somebody who isn’t Bibbie should deal with any susceptible old men who come to us for help, no matter how they found their way to the door. I mean, honestly, we’re lucky the old boy didn’t drop dead from a heart attack. Just looking at Bibbie tends to increase the blood pressure.”
Melissande considered him. “It doesn’t increase mine.”
“It does when you’re looking at her floating on a dustbin lid on the other side of the open office window,” said Reg, ever helpful. “Or when she’s forgotten to bring in the post again. Or when she’s—”
“Thank you, Reg,” said Melissande, back to snooty. “I think we both know what Gerald’s referring to.”
Another tail-rattle from the back seat. “Oh. You mean the fact he’s ass over teakettle about the girl and can’t bring himself to say anything to her?”
This time he gave her a scorching glare. “Reg! Do you mind?”
“Just stating the bleeding obvious, sunshine,” said Reg. “Or did you think neither of the very intelligent women in this jalopy
had noticed?”
He swallowed. And what did that mean? Did it mean Bibbie knew that he had feelings for her? And if she did know was she wondering why he’d not declared himself? Was he hurting her the way Monk was hurting Melissande?
Oh, blimey. Why wasn’t I born a turnip?
“It’s all right, Gerald,” said Melissande. “Your not terribly secret secret’s safe.” She glanced at Reg. “Well. With me, anyway.”
Bloody Reg. “All I meant,” he said, in a valiant attempt to get the conversation back on track, “is that there are some clients who might best be dealt with by a man. Nothing to do with competence, just—”
“Don’t,” said Melissande. “Really, Gerald? Just don’t. Because if you think I’m in the mood to be told that women can’t do the job like a man then you’re nowhere near as clever as you look.”
“Um—” All of a sudden it was very important to concentrate on the rainy street in front of them. “Yes. All right.”
“And speaking of Arnold Frobisher,” Melissande added, still snippy, “just how many of our clients are Sir Alec’s fault?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t have a clue. Sir Alec doesn’t tend to confide.”
And if that’s not an understatement, I don’t know what is.
As he slowed them down again, getting ready for the awkward dog-leg turn that would put them onto Tapster Street which would then lead them circuitously to Daffydown Lane, Melissande folded her arms in that particular way she had.
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” she said sourly. “However, be that as it may, leaving Sir Alec’s procurations aside—and no matter how troublesome the inconveniently concupiscent Mr. Frobisher has proven to be—we needed his business. In case you’ve not noticed, Gerald, being taken over by the government hasn’t precisely made us rich. We’re still scrambling, and as far as I can tell we’re going to keep on scrambling for the foreseeable future.”
“Yes, I know, only…” He cleared his throat, feeling fresh guilt. “It’s all part of our cover story, remember? Sir Alec did explain.”
“Yes, and now I’m explaining,” Melissande retorted, a positively martial light in her eye, “since it seems to have escaped your keen wizardly observational skills, that like it or not Bibbie’s blood-pressure raising attributes are an asset to the establishment. Just like me being related to a king is an asset. And assets exist to be exploited.”
“Oy!” said Reg, and she sounded offended. “What about me? I’m the third witch of Witches Incorporated. Technically. I’m the technical advisor. I’m an asset too, ducky, and don’t you forget it!”
“That’s true,” Melissande admitted. “You’re cheap to feed.”
This time Reg’s silence lasted all the way to the end of Tapster Street, into Daffydown Lane and to Witches Incorporated’s front door.
Relieved, Gerald pulled the jalopy over to the pavement and shifted the gearstick into neutral so the engine could idle. If he was smart he’d bid the girls good night right now and pretend he’d never noticed the tension between Melissande and Monk.
But then nobody ever accused me of being smart, did they?
Besides. They were his friends, and in his line of work friends were hard—if not impossible—to come by. And he’d introduced them. It was his fault they’d met. So he had a vested interest in making sure things worked out, didn’t he?
He cleared his throat again. “Look. Melissande. About you and Monk…”
“Oh, Gerald,” she groaned. “Please, can’t you—”
“I know, I know,” he said hastily. “It’s none of my business. Except that it is my business because I care about both of you a great deal and I want you to be happy. So if it would help for me to talk to Monk then—”
“Don’t you dare!” she gasped, horrified. “How would you like it if I took Bibbie aside and nattered to her about you?”
Despite all the reasons why that was a terrible idea he nearly said, Oh, would you?—but he managed to bite his tongue. Reg was aching for an excuse to poke her beak in and the thought of her giving Bibbie romantic advice about him…
I’d be better off sticking hot needles in my eyes.
“Then let me say this, Melissande, and then I promise I’ll shut up,” he said. “Whatever’s going on with Monk—whatever the reason is that he hasn’t—that he’s not—it isn’t because he doesn’t care. He really does care. But this business with his uncle—”
Sighing, Melissande tugged on her long, rust-red plait. “It’s all right, Gerald. There’s no need to fuss—or defend him, either. Monk’s old enough to do his own talking. As for me, I’m a big girl now too, which means I can fight my own battles. So if you don’t mind I’d rather not talk about it any more. Or about Mr. Frobisher, the old coot. I’ll handle him.”
He patted her hand. “I know you will, Your Highness. You’re brilliant.”
There was enough street-light filtering through the windshield for him to see that she was blushing. “Yes. Well.” She shoved her spectacles back up her nose. “As it happens, Gerald, since we’re talking agency business, there is a question I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. A note in her voice. An ominous undertone. “Yes?” he said, wary.
“When does Sir Alec intend sending you on another janitorial assignment? I mean, he bullied Witches Inc. into becoming part of his wretched Department and now here we are, nearly three months later, and you’re still pretending to be a Third Grade wizard. I was under the impression you were supposed to be an occasional thaumaturgical contributor, not a permanent fixture. So what’s going on?”
It was a very good question—and he had no answer. “Tired of having me around, are you? Eager to see me off the premises for a while?”
“Don’t be silly,” she snapped. “Even pretending to be a common or garden not terribly special locum you’re as much an asset to the firm as Bibbie’s blue eyes or my soppy brother.”
“I am? You mean as a mere male I’m good for something after all? Aside from taking out the rubbish, I mean.”
“Target practice, if you’re not careful,” Reg muttered from the back seat.
Melissande tossed her plait off her shoulder with an impatient shrug. “Of course you are. Because even though it pains me to admit it, you’re right. Sometimes the best woman for the job is a man. Mr. Arfenbacher’s little embarrassment, remember? He was never going to talk to a witch about that. And Lady Grune? A total stranger to the concept of sisterhood, that bloody woman. You saved the day there too, Gerald.”
“Oh,” he said, and was surprised to find himself ridiculously pleased. “Well. You know. Just doing my bit.”
“And that’s the problem, isn’t it?” said Melissande. “Because the more you keep doing your bit the more clients are going to ask for you to work on their case. You’ll turn into your own walking billboard and we won’t need to mention you in our advertising even as a footnote. Which is going to make running the agency that much harder, if I can’t say for certain whether you’re going to be available. What if I give you a terribly important job and then in the middle of it Sir Alec whisks you away? What happens to us then? To our reputation?”
“You’d manage,” he said. “And Melissande, Sir Alec did explain that—”
She slapped the jalopy’s dashboard. “Yes, Gerald, I know what he explained. I was there, remember? I signed the paperwork. In triplicate. But the plain unvarnished truth is that we’re a better agency with you than without you so just answer the question, would you? Please? When are you likely to be sent away on Department business?”
He shrugged. “Honestly, Melissande, I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s not good enough!”
“I’m afraid it’ll have to be. Sorry.”
She snatched up her plait and bit the end of it, savagely. “Well, it’s not. I’ve a good mind to make an appointment with your precious Sir Alec and—”
“No! No! Melissande, you can’t!”
Horrified, he stared at her. “Really, you can’t. You promised you’d stay out of Department business, remember? Don’t you know how close-run a thing it was, you and Reg and Bibbie and Monk getting mixed up with the Wycliffe affair? The favors Sir Alec called in to protect all of us—to keep the agency open and you from being sent home to Rupert in disgrace—Melissande, please. You can’t.”
“I didn’t know there’d been that kind of trouble,” she said after a long silence. Then she tilted her chin, and behind her spectacles her eyes glittered dangerously. “Why didn’t you tell me there’d been that kind of trouble? Is that why you’ve not been sent on an assignment yet? Are you being punished because of what happened with Wycliffe’s?”
“No, of course not,” he said, even though there were moments when he had his suspicions. “It’s just the way things go in the janitor business. The right kind of assignment hasn’t come along, that’s all.”
“Good,” said Melissande. Then she frowned at her lap. “Although, to be honest, Gerald, I hope it never does. I don’t want you disappearing into the underworld of black market thaumaturgics or international skullduggery or whatever catastrophe comes along next.”
“But that’s my job, Melissande,” he said gently. “My real job. The agency—it’s just camouflage.”
Staring out of the passenger window, she sighed. “I know.”
“And when that Sir Alec does get around to sending you on another mission, even if you could turn him down you wouldn’t,” said Reg. “Would you?”
“Is she right?” said Melissande, when he didn’t answer.
Reg hopped from the back seat onto the back of the driver’s seat, behind his left shoulder. “Don’t be a tosser, madam. Of course I’m right. Our Gerald’s getting antsy—aren’t you, Gerald? You’re starting to feel cooped up. Bored. And even though that Sir Alec’s got you jumping through hoops once a week out at Nettleworth, it’s not the same. It’s not enough. You’re as bad as that Markham boy, drat you. You don’t like having your wings clipped any more than he does. You, Gerald Dunwoody, are pining for action.”
